THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Helen  Clinton 


PRESENTED  BY 

Kathryn  &  Edna  Greiner 


STRATFORD  &  GREEN 

•BOOfVSEUERS 

- 


THE  OLD  PATROON 


AND  OTHER  PLAYS 


BY 

GEORGE  STANISLAUS  CONNELL 


NEW  YORK 

WILLIAM  H.  YOUNG  &  COMPANY 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
GEORGE  STANISLAUS  CONNELL. 


WARNING:— The  right  to  act  these  plays  Is 
withheld.  Legal  redress  will  be  sought 
for  their  presentation  without  the 
author's  consent. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  OLD  PATROON,  Comedy 3 

A  TRILOGY  IN  MINIATURE: 

MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR,  Comedy 55 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL,  Melodrama 77 

THE  MILD  MONOMANIAC,  Farce , 91 


K 

813902 


THE  OLD  PATROON. 


CHARACTERS. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  "the  Old  Patroon" 

DIRK  VAN  WIE,  burgher. 

CAPTAIN  GLEN,  a  young  officer. 

MASTER  BARLOW,  of  New  York. 

'ZEKIEL,  negro  servant. 

MISTRESS  MATTY,  an  English  maiden. 

DAME  MARIAN,  her  mother. 

DAME  LOUISA,  Matty 's  aunt. 

JUDY,  wife  of  'Zekiel. 

TOWNSPEOPLE,  etc. 

Scene,  Schenectady ; 

Period,  about  1730 ; 

Time  for  representation,  one  hour. 


THE  OLD  PATROON. 


SCENE — A  street  in  the  outskirts  of  an  old 
Dutch-colonial  town.  House,  LC,  with  low  "  stoop  " 
having  a  narrow  seat  either  side  of  doorway. 
Half-doors.  Flower  garden  hidden  by  hedge,  RC. 
Large  tree  with  bench  encircling  it,  R. 

Enter  GERRIT  VAN  ALST  and  'ZEKIEL. 

'ZEKIEL.  Massa  Gerrit,  'jes'  yo'  lean 
all  yo'  weight  on  dis  yere  chile  ;  I'se 
ony  a  brack  nigger,  an'  I'se  a'gittin' 
ole,  but  my  legs  is  mos'  better  dan  a 
flea's.  An'  yo'  'member,  Massa  Ger- 
rit, yo'  say  I'se  de  on'y  heart  dat  lub 
yo'  now. 

GERRIT    VAN    ALST.    That's  true,  1 
boy ;  and  when  we  oust  these  English 
robbers,  and  the  good  old  stock  of  New 
Amsterdam   comes  into  its  own  again 

3 


4  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

you  shall  have  a  fine  blue  livery  all 
trimmed  with  Dutch  galloon  straight 
from  old  Holland.  Now  fetch  the 
grub-ax  and  tend  the  flowers  a  little. 
I  can't  afford  to  waste  so  much  time 
over  them. 

'ZEKIEL.  Is  yo'  a'gwine  to  let  yo' 
flowers  die,  Massa  Gerrit  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Not  a  bit  of 
it !  And  mind  you  keep  them  as  well 
as  they  are  now !  But  down  there  on 
the  Green  to-day  the  town  will  put  me 
in  office  for  another  year,  and  it  is 
about  time  I  gave  up  playing  with 
flowers  as  any  child  might.  'Zekiel, 
you  don't  know  what  ambition  is,  my 
boy. 

'ZEKIEL.    Oh,  yis  I  does,  Massa  ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Hey-diddle- 
diddle !  You  have  no  ambition,  'Zekiel. 

'ZEKIEL.    Yis  I  hab,  Massa ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.    What  is  it  ? 

'ZEKIEL.    Wull,  it  jes'  dis  way.    You 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  5  - 

know  Judy  am  a'gittin'  ole  an'  sup- 
perammunated,  an'  she  hab'  a  misery 
in  'e  back  mos'  de  whole  time,  an'  yo' 
'Zekiel  always  take  ambition  on  po' 
sick  folk — 'specially  when  de  folks  be 
he  own  'ooman.  Judy  say  I  hab  mo* 
ambition  she  nebber  did  see,  fur  I  tuk 
de  chores  right  out  of  um  harnds  yister- 
day  an'  scrub  de  big  iron  kittle,  an' 
druv  ole  Mistis  Verveelen  geese  out  de 
kibbage  patch,  an'  swep'  out  de  cock- 
loft. An'  I'se  a'gwine  to  do  all  de 
fixin'  an'  fussin*  right  'long  now,  an' 
Judy  she  kin  jes'  sit  'roun'  an'  tek  care 
o*  hersel'  like  's  if  she  war  a  lady.  She 
di'n't  want  let  me  doit,  but  at  de  eend 
she  promise,  an'  I  say  "  Swar  !  "  an' 
she  say  "  Lordy  gracious  !  "  Oh  yis, 
dere  be  a  heap  o'  ambition  in  yo'  'Zekiel 
ole  heart,  Massa  Gerrit. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Well,  if  you 
take  to  cooking  and  burn  by  suppawn, 
you'll  suffer  for  it.  Go  along  now  and 


6  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

get  me  my  pipe  ;  I'll  take  a  nap  here 
on  the  stoop. 

(Exit  'ZEKIEL  into  house. 

Townspeople   pass  R   to  L,  saluting. 

Enter  DIRK  VAN  WIE,  R.) 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Guten  dag,  Excel- 
lency. May  I  valk  vid  you  down  to 
der  Green  for  der  elegtions  ?  Dose 
poys  vould  fire  de  old  demi-culverin 
dat  vas  captured  from  de  French,  und 
I  vould  consult  vid  you  how  much  of 
powder  to  put  in  id. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Fire  the  demi- 
culverin,  Dirk?  What  for?  Are  there 
any  French  and  Indians, — is  there  a 
mutiny  ? 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Dey  say  dey  joost 
vould  celebrate  der  elegtions. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.    Humbug,  Dirk  ! , 
Do  they  know  how  much  that  foolish 
firing  would  cost,  and  how  many  wolves 
they  could  shoot   with  the  powder  if 
they  put  it  into  their  muskets? 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  / 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  I  told  dem  so, 
Excellency,  but  dey  joost  maagd  a 
choke  at  me,  und  vould  know  if  I  vas 
gedding  old  und  useless  now. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  They're  getting 
old  themselves  !  And  they  never  were 
anything  but  useless ! 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Und  some  of  dose 
English  gallants  maagd  fun  aboud  our 
good  Dutch  prayers  for  de  blessing  of 
Heaven  over  de  elegtions. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Donner !  Dirk 
Van  Wie,  you  tell  those  runagates  that 
I  forbid  their  firing  the  culverin — I, 
Gerrit  Van  Alst.  And^if  they  want  to 
blaspheme  or  to  ridicule  our  good  old 
customs  tell  them  they  can  go  to  their 
own  Albany,  where  they'll  have  plenty 
of  their  own  upstart  kind  to  appreciate 
them.  And  wait — if  they  say  again 
that  you  are  growing  old  and  useless — 
just  come  to  me  and  I'll  make  you  the 
town's  rate  assessor  for  five  years. 


8  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Your  Excellency 
vill  not  gum  to  der  elegtions  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  No,  Dirk  ;  the 
old  wound  in  my  knee  has  rebelled 
against  parading  and  speech-making 
to-day.  But  tell  the  boys  to  abide  by 
the  laws,  for  if  there's  turbulence  I'll 
hear  of  it,  and,  Dutch  or  English,  the 
culprit  shall  pay ! 

(Exit  DIRK  VAN  WIE,  L. 

'ZEKIEL/ias  meanwhile  returned  with 

the  pipe.) 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Come,  'Zekiel, 
my  boy,  what's  the  matter  with  that 
coal  ?  you're  sloAv  getting  a  light  to-day. 

'ZEKIEL.  Dat  so,  Massa  Gerrit.  I'se 
ony  a  po*  ole  nigger, — but  ef  yo*  jes* 
wanted  yo'  could  git  some  nice  white 
pusson  could  light  a  pipe  wi'  dey  eye 
jes'  as  quick  as  a  wink. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  What  is  that, 
'Zekiel  ?  Light  a  pipe  with  their  eyes  ? 

'ZEKIEL.   Yis,  Massa  Gerrit,  an'  warm 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  9 

yo'  all  up  wi'  de  light  from  dem — dey 
is  eyes  like  dat,  Massa  Gerrit.  An*  yo' 
could  hab  de  pick  o'dem  allef  yo'  ony 
say  so. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  You  mean  I 
should  marry,  eh  'Zekiel  ?  Now,  why 
have  you  said  that  so  often  the  last  few 
years  ? 

'ZEKIEL.  Wull,  Massa  Gerrit,  in  de 
bible  dat  yo'  read  for  me  an'  Judy 
ebery  night  all  de  folks  of  any  'count 
hab  got  married  when  dey  done  git  ole 
enough.  Dere's  Adam,  he  hab  a  wife 
when  he  done  got  ole  enough,  an' 
Abram,  he  hab  a  wife  when  he  done 
got  ole  enough,  an'  Jacob,  he  hab  a 
wife  when  he  done  got  ole  enough,  an' 
dey  war  all  'spec'able  folks.  But  de 
bible  don'  say  Esau  hab  any  wife,  an' 
he  sole  he  birfday  fur  a  mass  o'  potash, 
an'  it  don'  say  Cain  hab  any  wife,  an' 
he  kill  'um  brudder.  Now,  Massa  Ger- 
rit, yo  done  got  ole  enough. 


10  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (laughing],  'Ze- 
kiel,  I'm  not  old  enough,  and  you  can't 
make  me  believe  I  am.  If  I'm  a  little 
forgetful  now  and  again  that's  only 
natural,  considering  all  I  have  to  occupy 
my  thoughts, — and  this  old  wound 
doesn't  trouble  me  often.  No,  'Zekiel, 
I  need  no  one  but  you  and  Judy  to  take 
care  of  me ;  and  as  for  bright  eyes  to 
light  my  pipe  with,  listen  and  I'll  dream 
aloud  for  you  a  little  of  the  past : 
Beside  our  old  Dutch  church,  long,  long 

ago, 

— Perhaps  the  belfry   swallows  yet  re- 
member,  — 
A   noisy   youngster    burst    upon    the 

world 
With  shouts  of  boyish  glee  and  mad 

bravado. 

An  only  child,  he  ruled  the  little  house- 
hold, 

Taxing    an    angel-mother's   love    and 
kisses 


THE   OLD    PATROON.  II 

With  spendthrift  confidence.     And  as 

he  grew, 
Schenectady's    old   burghers  at    their 

pipes 
Talked  proudly  of  his  future  for  the 

state. 
Some   fifty   years  agone  our   bowling 

green 
Saw  him  acclaimed    a  schepen  of  the 

town, 
And,  half  in  sport,  old  Jan  Van   Tien- 

hoven 
Planted    the     tented  elm  that   stands 

there  now, 
Saying  that  as  it  grew  to  shield  and 

shade, 
So  should  the  day's  young  hero  serve 

the  state. 

In  time  the  English  came.     New  Am- 
sterdam— 
New  York,  as  they  would  dub  it, — fed 

its  eyes 
On  scarlet  vest  and  pretty  petticoat, 


12  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

And    old     Schenectady,    good,    loyal 

Dutch, 
Sent  there  her  chosen  son  to  plead  her 

cause. — 

I  know  not,  'Zekiel,  if  love  be  blind, 
As  heathen  poets  tell    us,  but  a  lover 
Is  rebel  to  all  law  save  love  alone. 
And  so,  although  the  British  blood  and 

Dutch 
Were  meant  to  mingle  but  as  air  and 

water, 
A  fair  young  English  maid  with  April 

eyes 
Of    ever-changing    passion    won    the 

heart 
Schenectady  alone  had  right  to  rule. 

'ZEKIEL.    An*  dat  war  you,  Mass' 
Gerrit  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.    Yes,  'twas  I. 

'ZEKIEL.     But  ef  yo'  lubbed  her  so 

why  din't  yo'  tell  her  dat  she  could 

marry  yo'  ? 

GERRIT   VAN   ALST.    Ah,  'Zekiel, 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  13 

boy,  I  loved  her  dearly, — love  unwary, 
lavish. — She  took  a  red-coat  captain  for 
her  husband  and  sailed  beyond  the  seas. 

'ZEKIEL.  Wull,  Massa  Gerrit,  ef  she 
don'lub  yo', — what  yo'  waiting  fur? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  'Zekiel,  I  love 
her  yet. — But  enough  !  A  sentimental 
statesman  is  as  big  a  failure  as  a  timid 
soldier.  Broken  hearts  will  be  mended 
in  heaven,  but  on  earth  ambition's  the 
sovereign  balm — ambition  !  To-day 
they're  re-electing  me  a  burgomaster 
of  Schenectady.  Next  fall  half  the 
colony  will  hail  me  in  the  Assembly 
of  New  Amsterdam,  and  'Zekiel,  this 
time  I'll  go  to  fight — to  fight  for  our  old 
traditions  and  the  rights  of  New 
Netherland.  Who  knows,  boy,  there 
may  be  another  Dutch  governor  be- 
fore many  years  !  God  never  meant 
the  red-coats  should  prosper  very  long. 
They  succeed  sometimes — sometimes. 
But  the  Dutch  are  true  and  faithful, 


14  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

and     in    Heaven — in    Heaven — {falls 
asleep). 

'ZKKIEL,  (working  over  the  flower- 
bed). In  Heaben  dey  done  got  all  de 
Dutch  gubbernors,  Massa,  an'  I  'low 
as  how  de  English  gubbernors'll  hab 
to  go — back  again  to  England.  Dutch 
gubbernors  is  a  heap  better,  an'  my  ole 
Unc'  Azra  say  he  done  see  two  Dutch 
gubbernors  eat  a  whole  ox  at  a  bar- 
becue, all  by  himselves.  (GERRIT  VAN 
ALST  snores)  Yis,  Massa,  a  whole  ox, 
out-tekkin'  de  hoofs  an'  de  horns. — 
Yaas,  Massa,  bible  troof,  'fore  de  Lord  ! 
— Wull,  Massa  Gerrit !  Ef  yo'  gwine 
be  a'snoozin'  an'  a'snoozin*  yo'  ole 
'Zekiel  hab  no  mo'  to  say ! 

(Exit    'ZEKIEL    through 

garden.    Enter,  R,  MATTY,  BARLOW 

and  CAPT.  GLEN,  marching) 

CAPT.    GLEN,    (marking    the   step). 

Hep  !    Hep  !    Hep  ! — Indeed,  Mistress 

Matty,  your  rustic  cavalier  is  too  am- 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  I  5 

bitious.  (Airily,  though  with  habitual 
drawl?)  Had  he  been  born  under  Mars 
instead  of  somewhere  beneath  the 
Great  Bear  we  could  all  put  the  right 
foot  forward  together  without  his  awk- 
ward pause  spoiling  the  step.  (To 
BARLOW.)  Your  method  of  progression, 
my  young  friend,  is  imperfect,  and  if 
you  would  abate  the  heavenly  rolling 
of  your  eyes  and  the  infernal  rolling  of 
your  gait  you  would  remind  us  less  of 
a  cork  in  a  duck-pond.  I  trust  for 
your  sake  that  those  soulful  glances  are 
all  lost,  for  such  a  deal  of  good  looks 
must  certainly  damn  your  ill  favor ! 

MATTY,  (laughing).  In  truth,  Captain 
Glen,  that  is  rare  advice  !  Master  Bar- 
low is  merely  colonial-bred,  and  so  his 
manners  smell  of  hay-time  rather  than 
41  Hep!"  time! 

BARLOW,  (with  injured  dignity).  You 
proffered  me  the  honor,  Mistress  Matty, 
to  escort  you  to  the  Green. 


1 6  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

MATTY.  What !  Master  Barlow,  are 
your  manners  as  bad  as  that !  Mistress 
Matilda  is  my  name,  so  please  you. 

BARLOW,  (bitterly).  Pray  overlook 
my  freedom,  for  in  view  of  our  eight 
months'  acquaintance  in  New  York  my 
privilege  seemed  no  less  than  his  you've 
hardly  seen — at  least,  so  I  thought. 

MATTY,  (derisively).  Think  again, 
Master  Barlow  ! 

CAPT.  GLEN.  Don't  think  so  any 
more,  Master  Barlow  !  And  now,  Mis- 
tress Matty,  may  I  escort  you  ?  And, 
sir,  when  you've  learned  your  lesson  of 
colonial  respect,  acquired  some  polish, 
and  attained  a  greater  legal  eminence 
than  you  now  enjoy  you  may  find  us 
more  indulgent,  feel  us  less  critical  and 
hear  us  say,  without  an  incredulous 
smile,  "  Your  Honor  "  / 

BARLOW,  (angrily).  Is  my  honor 
your  jest  to  be  played  upon  at  will  ? 

CAPT.   GLEN,   (tantalizingly).      If  I 


THE  OLD   PATROON.  I? 

touch  upon  the  subject  are  you  wise 
to  rail  about  it  ?  When  you  play  upon 
a  drum  it  sounds  because  it  is  hollow ; 
so,  my  joke  has  barely  left  my  lips 
when  you  proclaim  yourself  beaten  ! 

BARLOW,  {furious).  To  your  guard, 
sir !  Let  us  see  if  your  sword  be  as 
quick  as  your  tongue  ! 

MATTY,  (apprehensively).  Oh  gentle- 
men, pray  be  calm ! 

CAPT.  GLEN,  (coolly).  No  cause  for 
alarm,  Mistress  Matty.  A  colonial 
citizen  it  is  needless  to  disarm.  Shall 
we  proceed  ? 

BARLOW.  No!  You  must  fight, 
you  coward !  Flamingo !  I'll  preen 
your  plumage  for  you !  Petticoat 
soldier !  Come,  let's  put  a  placket  in 
your  breeches ! 

CAPT.  GLEN,  (mildly  surprised). 
Zounds  !  The  little  cur  can  bite. 

(  They  begin  a  duel ;  MATTY  screams.) 

a 


1 8  THE  OLD  PATROON. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (awakened  and 

coming  down). 

What !    Fighting  here  upon  the  public 
way ! 

Is    this   a   cock-pit?     You    defy     the 
town  ? 

Schenectady  has  suffered  daily  insult 

And  borne  it  with   the  dignity  of  si- 
lence. 

But  not  till  now  was  brawling  in  the 
streets 

Ranked  as  a  privilege  within  her  laws  ! 
CAPT.  GLEN. 

Sir,  I  am  Captain  Glen,  an  English  of- 
ficer. 

Stand  back  ! 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (facing  him}. 

And  I  am  Gerrit  Van  Alst,  a  Dutchman, 

As  well  you  know,  and  trustee  eighteen 
years 

Here  in  Schenectady.    I  make  the  laws 

And  with  the  help  of  God  I'll  see  them 
kept! 


THE   OLD    PATROON.  19 

You,  Captain  Glen,  an  English  officer, 

And  neighbor  though  you  be,  shall  pay 
for  this 

And    half    a    hundred    past    unnoted 
pranks. 

Within   the  month  our    English  gov- 
ernor 

Will  find  you  more  congenial  residence. 

You  know  my  word,  so  fear  my  influ- 
ence. 

(To  BARLOW).     But   you,  sir,  if  there's 
breeding  in  a  face, 

Were  reared  for  better  trade  than  tiffs 
and  broils. 

From  hereabout,  I  venture,  you  have 
come 

To  taste  of  our  election  holiday, 

And  found  the  draught  too  strong  for 

good  behavior? 
BARLOW,  (sulkily). 

I  am  no  bumpkin,  sir,  but  secretary 

To  this  young  lady's  uncle,  an  alderman 

And  merchant  of  New  York. 


20  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (kindly). 

Then  take  advice 

Distilled  in  sorrow's  wine-press.     Come, 
let's  talk. 

(Leads  him  aside  and  warns  him 
against  CAPT.  GLEN.) 
MATTY,  (surprised}. 
Well !     This  old  man  leans  boldly  on 

his  power. 

CAPT.  GLEN,  (nettled). 
An  old  Dutch  windmill ! 

MATTY,  (with  aroused  curiosity). 

What's  his  history  ? 
CAPT.  GLEN. 

Dull  as  the  town's  and  full  as  common- 
place. 

We  call  him  here  Schenectady's  patroon, 
For  every  year,  as  regular  as  frost, 
And  by  a  sort  of  habit  long  acquired, 
These  Dutch  elect  him  village  autocrat. 
He  wears  the  town  upon  his  little  ringer, 
And  with  that  signet  makes  his  humor 
law. 


THE  OLD   PATROON.  21 

BARLOW,  (to  GERRIT,  impatiently}. 
I'll  pay  it  all  the  thought  it  may  be 

worth. 

MATTY,  (to  GLEN,  sarcastically). 
Then  you  are  but  a  monkey  on  a  stick 
For  him  to  dance  ? 

CAPT.  GLEN,  (taken  aback}. 
— To  dance  with  others  wooden  as  my- 
self. 
Now  may  I  dance  with  you  upon  the 

Green  ? 

MATTY,  (inattentively). 
Well — but  I'll  make  this  cavalier  my 

escort, 

— And,   if  he  will,   my   partner  for  a 
dance. 

(Goes  to  GERRIT  VAN  ALST.) 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
My  pretty  mistress,  if  a  cavalier 
Alone   can   please,  I  fear  lest   fitness 

grudge 

Your    bounteous   favor,    for   I    never 
learned 


22  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

The     minuet ;    besides, — my    dancing 

days 
Died  with  a  past  long  dead,  my  little 

girl. 

(Seats  himself  upon  the  bench  by  the  tree.} 

CAPT  GLEN,  (to  BARLOW). 
Come,  if  you'll  second  me  we'll  chime 

together. 
While  this  young  warbler  and  her  base 

companion 
Descant  upon  the  Dutch,  we'll  ring  the 

changes, 
We'll  change  the  modes,  we'll  turn  the 

scales  against  them  ! 
Our  glee  will  drown  the  dumps  ! 

BARLOW,  (gazing  back  spitefully  at 

MATTY). 
With  all  my  heart !     I'd  sell  my  life  if 

I  could — 
CAPT.  GLEN,  (sarcastically]. 

Bravely  spoken  ! 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  23 

We'll  be  two  roses  on  a  stem,  two  sun- 
beams, 
Two  dewdrops  in  a  lily-cup ! 

(Exeunt,  L.) 
MATTY. 

Yes,  let  them  go;  I'll  chat  a  bit  with  you. 
What  did  you  dance  ? 

(Seats  herself  beside  GERRIT) 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 

I  loved  a  good  Dutch  reel. 
MATTY. 
Yes,  Captain  Glen  has  told  me  you  are 

Dutch. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
My  parents  were,  and  left  me  as  a  pre- 
cious heritage 
Love  for  the  Fatherland  and  Holland 

ways. 
But  stands  this  Captain  Glen  so  well 

intrenched 

In  your  good  graces  ? 
MATTY,  (lightly]. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  free ! 


24  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

I  knew  him  but  by  name  till  yester- 
day. 

My  aunt  was  hungering  for  his  mother's 
voice, 

As  old  friends  will,  so  that  green  sprig 
named  Barlow 

Was  bidden  to  ease  our  voyage  from 
New  York 

And   kept   the   sails   blown    big    with 
laboring  love-sighs. 

Whenever  we  were  becalmed  a  glance 
at  him 

Would  start  us  off  again  !     But  Captain 
Glen 

Is  such  a  silly  goose,  and  drawls   his 
words — 

Why,  taffy  pulling  isn't  half  as  slow 

As  coaxing  him  to  coin  a  compliment. 

And  all  this  blessed  time,  if  you'll  be- 
lieve it, 

He's  not  said  once  he  loves  me. 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 

But  he  does? 


THE  OLD  PATROON.          2$ 

MATTY. 
Oh,  no  indeed.     Of  course  he  wouldn't 

mean  it. 
—That's  why  I  like  the  Dutch ;  they 

never  say 
They   love   you    when   in   truth    they 

don't — now  do  they? 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (trying  to  be  im- 
partial). 
Even    among    the    Dutch,    my    little 

lady, 
There's  some  base  coin, — though  rarely 

have  I  seen  it. 
MATTY. 
To  me  the  Dutch  are  honest,  true  and 

simple, — 
Just  like  your  flowers  here.     Oh,  may 

I  pluck  some  ? 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
'  Twould  yield   the   fairest   tribute  to 

their  worth. 
(Aside)  What  spell  is  hidden  in  this 

childish  prattle 


26  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

To  make  my  heart-blood  course  like  an 
April  kill? 

It  whispered  back  the  spirit  of  a  dream 

Buried  among  the  hills  of  green  ambi- 
tion ; 

It  breathed  the  echo  of  a  clarion 

That  called  gray  veteran  memories  to 
arms. 

— Yet,  if  her  father  be  as  old  as  I 

He's  none  too  young. — 

MATTY,  (among  the  flowers). 

You    know   the    language   that    your 

flowers  speak  ? 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 

My  flowers  speak  ?     No,  /  do  all  the 
talking, 

And  they  just  listen  when  I'm  tending 

them. 
MATTY. 

Ah,  but  they  talk  about  you  when  you 

And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  they're  gos- 
siping : 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  2/ 

Here's  Crocus  lingering — tells  of  cheer- 
fulness ; 
And  Jasmine,  amiability. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (good-naturedly). 

*  Enough ! 

The  little  flatterers  are  fooling  you  ! 

MATTY. 

These  violets  relate  your  modesty  ; 
The  daisies  vouch  for  simple  innocence  ; 
And  here  beneath  is  artless  Honesty, 
Called  by  no  other  name.     Why,  there 

are  pinks ! 
You  must  have  been  in  love — or  may 

be  now  ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (rising,  with  af- 
fected unconcern). 
Yes,  those  must  be  reduced  ;  they  grow 

too  rich. 
MATTY. 

And  here's  a  tell-tale  primrose,  yet  un- 
opened ; 

That  means  a  silent  love  :  and  at  the 
back 


28  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

Are  wall-flovvers^jidelity  unfailing. 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (compelled  by  his 

lame  knee  to  resume  his  seat). 
My  little  maid,  you  have  bewitched  my 

garden, 

And  surely  studied  magic  over-well. 
Love-ribbons,  vows,  and  longing  coy- 
concealed — 

What  may  not  next  your  oracles  betray? 
Or  moonlight    meetings  at    a    kissing- 

bridge — 
MATTY. 
What's  that  ? 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 

Ah,  one  thing  you  will 
never  learn 
Till  you  are  half-way  over  some  Dutch 

rillet 
But   barter   not    your   heart    for   any 

seeming — 
Love  never  rode  upon  a  merry  laugh. 

MATTY,  (taking  her  cue). 
Now  I've  a  flower  tells  me  more  of  you — 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  29 

This  tearful  little  yellow  asphodel 

Whispers  a  tale  of  unrequited  love. 

— Did  some  fair  lady  win  your  plighted 
faith 

To  wear  it  as  a  love-lorn  amulet  ? 

Did  some  girl  write  her  name   within 
your  life 

And  lay  the  story  by  unread,  uncared 
for? 

Speak  to  me.    See,  these  soft  auriculas 

That  owe  you  life  mean  trust  and  con- 
fidence. 

Love  me  for  her ;  make  me  your  com- 
forter.— 

Tell   me,  did   some  one   cheat  you  of 

your  heart  ? 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (reverently]. 

An   angel   out    of    heaven    asked    for 

it- 
God  must  have  known  its  use. — But 
come,  your  wish 

To  unlock  my  secret  thoughts  and  as- 
pirations 


3O  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

Has  proved  a  key  that  fits.     Give  me 

your  hand. 
Promise  you'll  be  my  little  friend  and 

truepenny 

Henceforth  to  the  crack  of  doom  ! 
MATTY,  (eagerly).  I  do  : 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
And  that  you'll  love  the  Dutch  ? 
MATTY,  (giving  flower). 

This  tulip-bud, 
Flame-hearted   with   a   golden   crown, 

shall  pledge  it. 
The  flower  tells  a   true   love's   warm 

avowal, — 
No    less    is    due    Schenectady's    Pa- 

troon. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (flattered). 
Tut,   tut!     That   title's  but  the   free- 
heart  gift 
Of  generous  neighbors,  and   upon  my 

head 

It  falls  unpaid  for  as  a  mother's  love- 
pats. 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  3 1 

With  real  patroons  it  crowned  an  hon- 
ored rank, 

For  our  old  Dutch  West  India  Com- 
pany, 

Back  in  the  days  of  loved  author- 
ities, 

Coined  it  and  stamped  it  probity  and 
worth. — 

That  chord  contains  the  key-note  of 
my  hopes. 

For  fame's  a  martial  air  that  fires  the 
heart 

To  stride  exultant  over  fallen  sorrow. 

Ambition  leads  to  victory  or  death — 

A  glorious  death  in  honorable  fight. 

For  eighteen  years,  my  pretty  Dutch 
recruit, 

I've  worked  to  win  for  friends  my  fel- 
low townsmen  ; 

Counseled  their  plans,  tempered  their 
public  wrath, 

Borne  with  their  faults  and  cheered 
them  in  their  sorrows. 


32  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

This   knee   was    worsted   fighting   for 

their  homes 

With  Indians  tired  of  English  treachery-. 
At  harvest  time  a  new  assemblyman 
Leaves  us  to  sound  abroad  our  people's 

will, 
And  in  the  hand  of  God  he'll  do  his 

duty  ! 
He'll  plead  for  public  honor,  thrift,  and 

truth- 
Plead  for  the  old-time  rule   of   peace 

and  justice 
And  neighborly  good  will.     He'll  wake 

their  hearts, 
(Rising)  And,  when  a  wider  sphere  shall 

hail  a  welcome, 

Ready  he'll  stand  to    rear   the    hard- 
hewn  walls 

That  sentinel  the  safety  of  a  state. 
— But  there,  the  future  cannot  dull  the 

taste 
For  sweets  the  present  offers. — 

(Cannon  heard.     MATTY  screams?) 


THE   OLD    PATROON.  33 

MATTY.  What's  that  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (sternly). 
Those  reprobates  let  loose  the  culverin 
Against  my  orders  ?     They  must  pay 

for  that ! 

MATTY,  (admiringly). 
Now  promise  me   you'll   be   my   own 

gallant, 

My  own  knight-errant,  shield  and  cham- 
pion ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
I'll  be  your  humble  servant  little   prin- 
cess, 
And  in  my  heart  I'll  build  a  throne  for 

you. 

One  only  is  its  queen,  but  she's  away, 
And,  till  she  comes — will  you  receive 

my  homage  ? 
MATTY,  (triumphantly). 
Gladly.     I'll  make  you  Lord  High  Ad- 
miral, 

And   you   shall   navigate   my  ship  of 
state. 
3 


34  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

No  one,  however  favored,  shall   usurp 
Either   the    fame    or   duties    of   your 
rank. 

(Enter  DlRK  VAN  WlE.) 

DlRK  VAN  WlE,  (greatly perturbed}. 
Ach  !  Excellency  ! — Yet  Excellency  no 
longer.  Oh,  Herr  Van  Alst !  Vat 
duyvil's  vork  is  dis  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  What's  hap- 
pened, Dirk  Van  Wie  ? 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Dose  rapscal- 
lions !  Dose  English  poys  !  Dey  turn 
us  out  of  all  de  offices  !  I'm  no  burg- 
omaster any  more,  nor  you,  nor  Pieter 
Maerschalck.  De  Dutch  are  dying 
every  day  ;  dese  Englishmens  are  gom- 
ing  into  allerdings ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (dazed).  They've 
— turned  us  out  ? 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Yah  !  I'm  going 
to  Fort  Orange  now  to-day.  I  take  de 
first  sheep  home  to  old  Holland.  New 
Amsterdam  is  in  der  Duyvil's  fist. 


THE  OLD   PATROON.  35 

Dis    is   no    blace    for    good    peebles. 
Coom,  ve'll  get  avay  ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  No,  Dirk ;  the 
times  will  change.  You  know  how 
long  we've  worked  for  Dutch  repre- 
sentation in  the  Assembly  of  the  col- 
ony. We'll  elect  our  spokesman  hardly 
three  months  from  now.  I  must  be 
here  to  undertake  it. 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Dey've  chosen 
him !  Dey  cast  de  votes  to-day,  be- 
hind de  elegtion  of  burgomasters  ! 
Captain  Glen,  dat  tvist-zoeker,  cajoled 
dem  und  made  dem  promises  of  busi- 
ness und  prizes  und  thalers  from  some 
Englishman  down  in  New  Amsterdam. 

MATTY.  Captain  Glen  ?  Was  Cap- 
tain Glen  elected  over  everybody? 

(Retires  and  looks  off  L.) 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Und  now,  Herr 
Van  Alst, — dear,  good  Gerrit,dot  ve've 
known  und  lofed  so  long — come  mit  me 
back  to  old  Holland— 


36  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (firmly,  after 
regaining  composure).  Never,  Dirk ! 
Here  I  was  born  and  here  I'll  stay, 
office  or  no  office.  And  why  not  stay 
here  with  me  ?  What  if  you  were  born 
in  Holland ;  the  best  years  of  your 
life  have  been  here  in  Schenectady. 
Stay,  and  see  the  Dutch  influence 
leaven  our  colony.  Stay,  and  see  our 
glorious  West  India  Company  resume 
direction,  and  peace  and  honest  com- 
fort return.  And  then,  think,  Dirk,  we 
love  some  of  the  English,  and  they 
love  us  with  all  their  hearts. 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  Dieven !  Schobbe- 
jacken  !  Blaaskaken  !  Loosen-shalken  ! 
Dot  Captain  Glen,  he  maagd  a  Duyvil's 
dans-kamer  of  our  elegtions  !  I  said  he 
should  not  fire  der  culverin.  He  pointed 
a  pocket-pistol  oud  at  my  head.  Den 
dose  scamps  und  deugenieten  fired  de 
culverin  und  py  St.  Nicholas  der  pullet 
hit  dat  elm-tree  in  der  middle  of  it — 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  37 

dat  elm-tree  you  loved  so — und  now  it 
vill  die  vid  a  hole  all  de  vay  oud  of  it ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (sadly].  Poor 
old  tree  !  Even  its  heart  was  not  safe. 
• — But  promise  me  you'll  stay.  Dirk. 
I'll  show  you  one  case  already  where 
our  old  Dutch  virtues  have  won  an 
English  heart.  A  cheery,  lovable  girl — 
(turns  to  where  MATTY  had  been  sitting). 

DIRK  VAN  WIE.  A  girl  !  Yaas, 
she'll  like  de  Dutch  for  schmelkty- 
nudels  and  raisin-pie  und  chincher- 
bread ;  but  tell  her  to  clean  off  de 
galousie  blinds  und  —  koockamulto, 
yoost  see  how  she  ben  gone ! — Ach, 
haltybissel,  mine  Gerrit,  der  goot 
Dutch  girl  is  goot  in  der  whole  year 
altogedder  und  der  English  girl  is  goot 
at  Paas  und  Pinxter. — No,  I  go  back 
to  my  old  home  on  de  Yssel. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (sadly,  but  with 
determination).  And  I  stay  here  till 
our  old  Dutch  honesty  returns  !  We 


38  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

may  not  win  the  offices  yet,  but  we'll 
conquer  the  hearts  of  those  about  us ! 
DIRK  VAN  WlE,  (admiringly  grasp- 
ing his  hand).  Gerrit,you  ben  a  crate  pig 
fighting  ram-sheep,  und  I  vish  I  too  vas  ! 

(Exit,  R.) 
(Enter  BARLOW  and  CAPT.  GLEN, 

jubilant?) 
BARLOW. 
There  she  is ! 
CAPT.  GLEN. 

Here  he  is  !     Trying  his  influence ! 
Ha,  ha !  "  You  know  my  word  " — now, 

old  Patroon ! 
There's  a  change  in  the  tide,  so  level 

your  "  influence  " 
Straight  at  your  rival, — the  Man  in  the 

Moon ! 

MATTY,  (eagerly). 
Let  me  felicitate  you,  Captain  Glen  ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
Young  man,  weigh  well  the  burden  you 
would  bear, 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  39 

For  honors  underrated  carry  curses. 
Jeer,  if  you  must,  at  Gerrit,  the  old 

Patroon, 
But  reverence  the  trust  he  hoped  to 

safeguard. 
.  MATTY. 
And  tell  us,  Captain,  was  the  dancing 

drowned 

In  other  celebration  of  your  triumph  ? 
If  not,  I  hope  to  try  a  measure  with  you. 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (in  surprised  dis- 
appointment). 
Does  friendship  follow   fortune,  little 

maid  ? 

MATTY,  (embarrassed). 
Oh  no, — but  then  I  love  the  red-coats 

so, — 

My  father  was  an  English  officer — 
Was  stationed  in  New  York  long,  long 

ago— 

'Twas  then  he  met  my  mother — 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (in  great  emotion). 
At  New  York  ? 


40  THE   OLD    PATROON. 

Her  name  before  she  married  !  —  Wait 

—  in  my  ear  ! 
MATTY,  (after  hastily  whispering  her 

'mother  s  name  in  his  ear). 
Well,   Captain    Glen,    must    I    implore 

your  notice? 
CAPT.  GLEN. 
Your  pardon,  but   this  gentleman   re- 

quired, 
As  payment  for  your  uncle's  name  he 

used, 
That  I  should  cede  to  him  your  com- 

pany— 

BARLOW,  (exultant). 
And  all  that  he   might  yield  it  back 

again  ; 
But   at   its    proper   worth  —  for   noth- 

ing! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (furiously). 
Sir  !  ! 


Then,  Captain,  shall  we  leave  ?  —  And, 
if  you  will, 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  4! 

Let's  go  by  way  of  the  bridge. 

(Exeunt,  L.) 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (enraged). 

See  here,  young  man — 
If  time  had  served  us  both  an  equal 

portion, 
You'd  pay  for  what  you've  done !     I'd 

baste  your  hide  ! 
BARLOW,  (sullenly). 
She  is  a  jilt ! 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 

And  you're  a  coward,  sir  I 
Enough,  begone ! 

(Exit  BARLOW,  R.) 
GERRIT   VAN  ALST,  (turning  sadly 
toward  his  home). 

'Zekiel !— 'Zekiel !— Judy  ! 
JUDY,  (appearing  at  doorway).     Yis, 
Marster. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Bring  me  the 
grub-ax,  Judy,  I  must  work  with  the 
flowers  awhile. 

JUDY.     Why,  Marster,  'Zekiel  'lowed 


42  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

as  how  you  tole  him  to  mind  de  flowers 
arfter  to-day. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  No  no !  They're 
too  important  to  be  trusted  with  him. 
I'll  tend  them  myself. — I'm  going  to 
raise  the  best  tulips  in  the  Colony — 
these  great  gay  ones — "  flame  hearted 
with  a  golden  crown."  I'll  make  them 
famous  through  all  New  Netherlands. 
Down  in  our  old  town  of  New  Amster- 
dam they  may  please  some  chance 
visitor  from  over  seas. 
(Enter,  R,  DAME  LOUISA  leading  DAME 
MARIAN,  who  is  blind.) 

DAME  LOUISA.  Marian,  I'm  heartily 
thankful  you  had  no  more  daughters, 
for  another  niece  like  Matilda  would 
drive  my  poor  head  crazy.  The  Lord 
should  never  have  made  you  blind  un- 
til she  was  safely  married,  for  it  takes 
four  eyes  to  watch  her — and  even  then 
she  slips  away  on  the  sly.  I'm  con- 
vinced, Marian,  that  we  must  send 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  43 

her  to  bed  and  take  her  clothes 
away. 

DAME  MARIAN.  Sister,  she  is  only 
a  child. 

DAME  L.  Oh,  she's  old  enough  to 
know  better.  You  were  only  a  child 
once  yourself,  but  you  knew  enough  to 
marry  a  brawling  tippler  that  kept  his 
foot  upon  your  neck  to  the  end  of  his 
life, — fifteen  long  years.  He  tried  to 
get  his  other  foot  on  my  neck,  thinking, 
I  suppose,  that  it  was  all  in  the  family. 
But  he  couldn't  play  Roman  charioteer 
or  Colossus  of  Rhodes  with  me ! 

DAME  M.  Sister,  can  you  see  Matty 
anywhere  ? 

DAME  L.  Not  a  vestige  of  her. 
But  then  it  is  useless  to  look  in  such  a 
quiet  spot  as  this.  I  know  she  must 
be  down  at  the  Green. 

DAME  M.     And  alone ! 

DAME  L.  Oh,  don't  be  afraid ;  I'll 
warrant  she  has  escorts  enough  !  Wait 


44  THE  OLD   PATROON. 

— sit  here ;  I'll  ask  this  old  Dutch 
gardener  if  he  has  seen  her.  (Seats 
DAME  M.,  atR.y  and  addresses  GERRIT, 
who  is  working  among  his  flowers]. 
Good  Sir,  have  you  observed  a  flighty, 
light-headed,  scatter-brained  goose  of 
a  girl  pass  this  way  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (rising).  No, 
madam,  I  have  not. 

DAME  L. — A  giddy,  flippant,  pert 
young  miss? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  I  have  not,  my 
good  dame. 

DAME  L. — A  silly,  laughing,  coquet- 
tish English  maid  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  A  little  Eng- 
lish maiden  I  have  seen.  Are  you — her 
aunt?  She  said  her  aunt  came  with  her. 

DAME  L.  Yes,  I  am  unhappily  that 
aunt.  We  arrived  here  scarce  twenty- 
four  hours  ago,  and  I  declare  she  has 
met  every  man  in  the  place  !  Do  you 
chance  to  know  where  she  is  now  ? 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  45 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  She  left  here 
to  dance  upon  the  Green. 

DAME  L.  Well,  she'll  dance  to  bed 
and  nowhere  else.  If  her  father  were 
alive  to-day  I  should  just  like  to  show 
him  how  his  love  for  rioting  has  borne 
fruit!  Sit  there,  Marian;  I'll  fetch 
the  girl  and  be  back  in  a  jiffy. 

(Exit,  L.) 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (aside).  Marian  ! 
(Approaching)  Is  this  the  mother  of 
our  strayaway  ? 

DAME  M. 
Yes,  I  am  she.     Though  in  my  child's 

regard 

'Twould  seem  I'm  more  a  keeper  than 
a  mother. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (aside). 
How  altered  !     Yet — the  same  ! 

DAME  M.     Are  you  the  gardener  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
Yes,  I'm  a  gardener  ; — (aside)  that's  all. 
And  fortune, 


46  THE  OLD   PATROON. 

Perhaps  in  jest,  has  left  me  one  poor 

gift, 

My  flowers  ;  let  me  offer  you  the  rarest. 
( Takes  the  tulip  from  his  coat  and 

offers  it.) 
(Hurt).     You  will  not  take  it  ? 

DAME  M.,  (extending  her  hand,  but 
not  toward  the  flower). 

Oh,  pray  pardon  me. 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (aside). 

My  God,  she  cannot  see  ! 
(  Takes  her  hand  and  closes  it  about 
the  flower?) 

DAME  M.  The  flower's  trim 

And   graceful,  but   a   niggard    in    per- 
fume. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 
'Tis   oft   a   fault   of   flowers,   and   the 

gayest 
That  woo  the  eye's  approval  bear  no 

soul 

To  make   their   memory   sweet.     For 
modest  worth, 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  47 

That  with  a  whispered  prayer  awaits  a 
lover, 

Dwells  rather  in  the  blossom  half-un- 
seen, 

A    presence     felt,    a    proffer    with    a 

pledge. 
DAME  M. 

Yes,  and  the  world's  the  same  in  every 
part, — 

Perhaps  the  sun  is  but  a  satellite, — 

For  in  the  truth  you've  uttered  stands 
revealed 

The  lesson  I  have  conned  for  twenty 
years. 

A  thoughtless  girl,  I  scorned  an  honest 
man 

To  wed  a  rake, — and  yet,  God  rest  his 

soul. 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST. 

And  if  that  honest  man  were  here  to- 
day, 

And  bore  for  you  the  self-same  heart 
of  love — 


48  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

DAME  M.,  (excitedly). 
Stop!     Is  it  Gerrit?   Nearer!    Quick, 

your  hand ! 

GERRIT   VAN    ALST,  (kneeling  and 
putting  his  hand  in  hers). 
And  if  his  power  reached  but  to  the 

flowers, — 

A  poor  Dutch  gardener, — 
DAME  M.,  (eagerly). 

That  I  can  mend  ! 
Your  life's  ambition  never  climbed  so 

high 
As  I  can  build  your  path.     Oh,  Gerrit, 

Gerrit, 
Let  me  replace  the  hopes  I  helped  to 

shatter  ! 
My  brother  holds   high   office  in   his 

gift; 
I  pledge  you  now  what   would    have 

been  your  honors 
Had  vanity  been  artless  long  ago. 
GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (diffidently). 
One  honor  I  would  ask — 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  49 

DAME  M.  That  is  ? 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.         — Yourself. 

DAME  M. 

You  love  me  yet ! — No,  Gerrit, — I  am 
blind. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (quietly). 
And  /  am  blind — to  all  the  world  but 


you 


Come,  love  is  best  that's  tipped  with 
bitterness. 

(Enter  LOUISA  with  MATTY  by  the 
arm ;  CAPT.  G.  behind,  tipsy.) 

DAME  L.  Hurry,  child  ;  it  is  very  im- 
portant and  requires  your  immediate 
attention. 

MATTY.     But  what  is  it,  Aunty  ? 

DAME  L.,  (mysteriously).  I  can't  bear 
to  tell  you.  Hurry  back  to  the  house 
with  me.  (Seeing  GERRIT  and  MARIAN 
embracing?)  Marian  ! ! 

DAME  M.,  (joyfully).    Ah,  Louisa,  I 
have  found  my  first  love,  Gerrit  Van 
Alst. 
4 


50  THE   OLD   PATROON. 

DAME  L.  What,  that  young  coun- 
tryman from  up  the  North  River  ? — 
the  one  that  lodged  in  Petticoat  Lane  ? 
Well,  well !  (MATTY  slily  substitutes 
CAPT.  GLEN'S  arm  in  her  aunt's  grasp 
and  is  by  him  caught  by  the  dress  as  she 
attempts  to  escape?}  I  remember  the 
first  time  he  put  on  Dutch  goloshes 
with  us — (approaches  GERRIT)  you  re- 
member, we  drove  out  to  the  Collect 
and  it  was  all  frozen  over  from  one  end 
to  the  other.  And  as  soon  as  you 
started  off  over  it,  up  went  your  heels 
and  down  you  sat  right  on  your  hat ! — 
And  oh,  what  fun  we  had  that  night 
sliding  down  Flatten  Barrack  Hill ! 
(Discovers  CAPT.  GLEN)  Oh ! ! 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST,  (laughing). 
'Zekiel!  'Zekiel !  Judy! 

JUDY,  (appearing  around  the  corner  of 
the  house].  Yis,  Marster. 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Where  's 
'Zekiel  ? 


THE   OLD   PATROON.  51 

JUDY,  (giggling).  He  up  in  de  loft, 
Marster,  mixin'  hoe  cake.  He  'lows 
as  how  I  karn't  do  it  no  mo',  so  he  tuk 
de  kittle  an'  de  big  pan  an'  all  de 
spoons  an*  paraphenia  up  to  de  loft. 
I  speculates  he  gwine  to  cook  some 
ambitions  fer  supper.  He  done  gone 
put  de  big  dough-pan  up  on  a  cheer, 
so  when  he  harnds  punch  de  meal  it 
mos'  like  a  bucket  gwine  down  in  a 
well  ! 

(Hubbub  within.  'ZEKIEL  heard  crying 
"  JUDY  !  JUDY  !  MASSA  GERRTT  ! " 
after  which  he  appears  at  the  door 
covered  with  meal  and  with  dough- 
smeared  fingers?) 

GERRIT  VAN  ALST.  Ah  !  Ambition 
gone  astray  ! 

(CAPT.  GLEN  sits  down  to  stare 
at  'ZEKIEL  and  rub  his  eyes.) 

CURTAIN. 


f  The  following  plays  "were  written  for  college  actors.} 

A  TRILOGY  IN  MINIATURE. 


I.  My  Youngster's  Love  Affair,  Comedy; 
II.  The  Guardian  Angel,  Melodrama ; 
III.  The  Mild  Monomaniac,  Farce. 

"  I  cannot  blame  his  conscience." 

HENRY  VIII. 


I. 

MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 


CHARACTERS. 

MR.  ARKWRIGHT,  a  practical  business  man  ; 
HENRY  ARKWRIGHT,  his  four-year-old  son  ; 
MR.  GRAHAM,  his  old  clerk  ; 
THOMAS,  his  butler. 


I. 

MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 


SCENE — Parlor;  mantel  over  bright  grate  fire,  L; 
lamp  on  table  in  middle  of  stage ;  doors,  LUE  and 
RC  ;  large  arm-chair  before  fire. 

(Enter  ARKWRIGHT,  taking  off  ulster 
and  giving  it  to  THOMAS  in  doonvay, 
RC). 

ARKWRIGHT.  Thomas,  hang  my 
coat  where  it  will  dry ;  quick,  quick ! 

THOMAS.  Yes,  sir  ;  it's  a  bad  storm, 
sir,  but  how  much  worse  it  is  for  old 
people  that  have  to  go  out  in  it,  sir. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Thomas,  that's  suffi- 
cient ;  run  away.  ( Exit  THOMAS.) 
Goodness,  this  weather  is  enough  to 

57 


58     MY   YOUNGSTER'S   LOVE   AFFAIR. 

kill  an  Esquimaux !  Sleet,  rain,  snow, 
wind,  slush,  ice, — three  blocks'  walk 
from  the  station  fits  you  for  three  days 
in  bed !  ( Takes  off  spectacles  and  ex- 
amines them  by  the  lamp,  then  lays 
them  on  mantel?)  Spoils  glasses,  too ; 
and  my  eyes  feel  as  if  they  had  been 
whipped.  Thomas  ! —  Thomas  !  (  Re- 
enter  T.)  Where's  Mrs.  Arkwright  ? 

THOMAS.  She  went  next  door,  sir, 
to  take  some  flowers  to  Mrs.  Graham, 
and  she's  not  returned  yet. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Always  attending  that 
sick  woman  instead  of  staying  at  home 
and  taking  care  of  herself !  Where's 
Henry  ? 

THOMAS.  She  took  the  little  boy 
with  her,  sir.  He  pleaded  so  hard  to 
visit  Mr.  Graham's  little  girl,  Prudence, 
that  she  had  to  take  him.  The  two 
little  tots  were  out  just  now  in  the  cov- 
ered alleyway  {pointing  over  his  shoul- 
der^) They  cleave  to  each  other,  sir, 


MY   YOUNGSTER'S    LOVE    AFFAIR.     59 

like  David  and  Goliah,  and  when  their 
yellow  curly  heads  are  gossipin'  away 
they  look  for  all  the  world  like  two 
little  angels  flown  down  from  the  same 
star.  Sure,  their  voices  tinkle  just  as 
one,  sir,  and  their  darlin*  faces  look  so 
much  alike  that — when  they  're  together 
I  can't  tell  them  apart !  But  now 
Prudence  has  a  big  red  cloak  with  a 
hood  to  it ;  it  must  have  cost  her  old 
father  some  pinching  to  get  it,  sir. 
(HENRY  heard  behind  the  scenes: 
"Henry !  Henry  ! "  "  Well,  Prudence  ?  " 
"  Your  mamma  says  you  must  put  this 
cloak  on,  or  else  come  right  into  the 
house  again  ! "  Sufficient  difference  in 
his  voice  will  be  made  if  he  faces  in 
opposite  'directions  for  the  call  and  re- 
sponse^ They  tell  me,  sir,  you  Ve  dis- 
charged old  Mr.  Graham  from  his  posi- 
tion, and 

ARKWRIGHT,  (impatiently).  Thomas, 
that's  sufficient ;  run  away. 


60   MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

THOMAS,  (retiring,  but  turning  again 
to  speak).  You  know  he's  getting 
hard  of  hearing,  sir,  and  he's  none  too 
strong. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (annoyed).  Thomas, 
will  you  run  away,  or  must  I  discharge 
you  too? 

THOMAS.  Ah,  Mr.  Arkwright,  you 
can't  frighten  your  old  Thomas  that 
way.  He  knows  your  heart  better 
than  you  do  yourself,  sir.  Sure,  he 
studied  it  before  you  ever  knew  you 
had  one  !  Who  was  it  dandled  you  on 
his  knee  ?  Who  was  it  gave  you  the 
spoon  and  the  bowl  and  let  you  have 
your  own  way  with  the  bread  and  milk 
when  they  wanted  to  tie  a  bib  around 
your  neck?  No,  you've  a  good,  kind 
heart,  sir,  and  it  grieves  me  to  see  you 
false  to  it  with  poor  old  Mr.  Graham. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (despairingly).  Will 
you  run  away,  or  must  7  leave  the 
room? 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    61 

THOMAS.  Every  one  of  us  is  sorry 
for  him,  sir. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (rising).  Thomas,  I'm 
not  going  to  let  you  talk  me  into 
things  any  more !  You  forget  that  I 
am  a  grown  man  with  a  family. 

THOMAS.  He  seems  even  more  fee- 
ble since  you  told  him 

ARKWRIGHT.  Do  you  think  I  have 
only  other  people's  welfare  to  look  out 
for  ?  Do  you  think  my  business  would 
last  a  year  if  I  answered  every  call  upon 
my  sympathy  ?  Do  you  think 

THOMAS.  And  oh,  the  darlin'  little 
girl,  too,  sir. 

ARKWRIGHT.    Do  you 

THOMAS.   And  the  poor  sick  mother. 

(Exeunt  ARKWRIGHT,  L.t  and 
THOMAS,  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 
RC.} 

ARKWRIGHT,  (re-entering  cautiously). 
That  man  would  talk  down  a  cyclone  ! 
He  seems  to  have  no  idea  how  business 


62    MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

matters  are  managed.  Mercantile  life 
is  not  a  colossal  philanthropy.  Busi- 
ness is  business.  I  can't  afford  to  have 
a  clerk  that  is  growing  deafer  every 
day,  and  so  old  that  he  makes  me  look 
like  an  office  boy.  No,  as  Thomas 
says,  my  heart  is  all  right,  but  this  is 
no  case  for  interference  from  the  heart. 
For  once  I'll  stand  firm.  Not  all  the 
persuasion  or  appeals  under  Heaven 
shall  move  me  this  time.  I'll  not 
change  my  mind !  I'll  never  change 
my  mind ! 

{Doorbell  rings;  re-enter  THOMAS.) 

THOMAS.  Mr.  Graham  would  see 
you,  sir. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (in  disgust}.  Tell  him 
I'm  out. 

THOMAS.  Sure,  sir,  he  knows  you  're 
in  ;  and,  besides,  I've  already  told  him 
so  myself. 

ARKWRIGHT,  ( with  resignation ). 
Well,  show  him  in. 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    63 

(Enter  GRAHAM,  a  dignifiedold  man, 
plainly  but  neatly  clothed  in  old-fash- 
ioned styled) 

GRAHAM.  Mr.  Arkwright,  I  beg  you 
to  excuse  me  for  intruding. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (in  a  business-like  tone). 
No  intrusion  at  all,  Mr.  Graham. 

GRAHAM,  ( without  hearing  him  ). 
Especially  at  a  time  when  we  are  both 
worn  out  with  the  day's  work. 

ARKWRIGHT.    I  trust  you  are  not— 

GRAHAM.  But  I  could  not  meet  my 
wife 

ARKWRIGHT,  (loudly}.  I  trust  you 
are  not  so  very  worn  out. 

GRAHAM.     Eh  ? 

ARKWRIGHT.  I  trust  you  are  not  so 
very  worn  out  ? 

GRAHAM.  Very  warm  out?  Oh, 
no, — very  cold  indeed,  sir.  And  I  feel 
the  cold  more  the  last  few  years. 
When  a  man  passes  sixty-five,  no  mat- 
ter how  hale  he  was  as  a  boy,  he's 


64    MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

bound  to  feel  the  cold.  And  it  is  this 
growing  old  that  makes  my  discharge 
all  the  harder  to  bear,  sir.  (Keeps  his 
hand  at  his  ear  throughout  the  rest  of 
the  interview?) 

ARKWRIGHT.  Mr.  Graham,  I  am 
sorry,  but  I  have  determined,  once  and 
for  all,  not  to  reconsider  that  subject. 
It  is  purely  a  matter  of  business  expe- 
diency into  which  I  have  resolved  no 
other  consideration  shall  enter,  sir. 

GRAHAM.  But,  Mr.  Arkwright,  if  I 
must  lose  the  position,  think  of  the 
hardship  it  will  bring  my  wife  and 
child.  You  have  professed  to  love  my 
little  girl ;  you  would  not  have  her 
suffer  ? 

ARKWRIGHT.  She  shall  not  suffer, 
sir, — but  that  is  entirely  aside  from 
business  matters. 

GRAHAM.  And  your  own  child, — 
you  would  not  make  him  unhappy. 
He  will  lose  his  playmate,  for  we  can- 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    65 

not  longer  afford  our  modest  home. 
The  children  love  each  other,  sir,  and 
a  separation  would  mean  the  first 
genuine  sorrow  of  their  little  lives. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (impatiently).  Mr. 
Graham,  I  can't  let  my  youngster's 
love  affairs  interfere  in  a  purely  busi- 
ness question. — And  anyway,  it  strikes 
me  you  assume  a  good  deal  in  believing 
that  Henry  will  not  find  another  play- 
mate as  attractive  as  Prudence. 

GRAHAM,  (stung  to  the  quick).  Sir, 
there  is  not  one  child  in  a  hundred  as 
amiable  and  sweet-tempered  as  my 
wee  daughter  ;  and  far  from  your  little 
boy's  fellowship  being  a  condescension, 
sir,  I  would  have  you  understand  that 
our  Prudence  has  more  good  qualities 
in  a  single  day  than  Henry  has  from 
Christmas  to  Christmas ! 

ARKWRIGHT,  (angry].      How    dare 
you  say  that,  sir  ?     It  is  not  true,  and 
you  know  it ! 
5 


66   MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

GRAHAM,  (hotly).  Our  little  girl  has 
never  in  her  short  life  given  us  the  least 
anxiety  or  displeasure,  sir.  We  have 
not  had  to  punish  her  even  once  ;  she 
knows  how  to  act  according  to  our 
wishes,  sir  ;  she  has  a  conscience,  while 
your  boy — 

ARKWRIGHT,  (emphatically].  I  am 
that  boy's  conscience,  sir ! 

GRAHAM.  Then  that  proves  what  I 
would  say !  I  bid  you  good  evening, 
Mr.  Arkwright,  and  before  leaving  I 
desire  to  assure  you  that  I  have  posi- 
tively forbidden  my  child  to  cross  your 
threshold  hereafter,  and  I  shall  look  to 
it  that  the  children  never  again  have 
occasion  to  meet. 

(Exit,  RC.} 

ARKWRIGHT.  What  insolence  !  That 
child  better  than  Henry  !  More  amiable 
and  sweet-tempered,  eh, — just  as  if  that 
was  everything !  Henry  is  worth  a 
dozen  of  her  !  (Walks  about  the  room. 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    67 

Extinguishes  lamp,  and  takes  a  seat  in 
big  arm-chair  before  the  fire]. — I'm  glad 
I  discharged  him  ;  I'm  only  sorry  I 
didn't  do  it  ten  years  ago.  More 
amiable!  Humph! 

(THOMAS  appears  at  doorway,  RC, 
with  HENRY  ivrapped  in  PRUDENCE'S 
red  cloak.  Enter  THOMAS,  groping  his 
way.) 

THOMAS.     Mr.  Arkwright. 

ARKWRIGHT.  What  do  you  want, 
Thomas  ? 

THOMAS.  Oh,  did  the  light  go  out, 
sir? 

ARKWRIGHT.  Yes,  and  let  it  stay 
out.  I've  worked  myself  nearly  blind 
to-day,  so  I'll  rest  my  eyes  here  in  the 
dark. 

THOMAS, (bockoningH EN RY*«).  Well, 
a  little  friend  of  yours  has  just  come  in 
at  the  back  door  to  pay  you  a  visit, 
sir. 

ARKWRIGHT.    Who  is  it  ? 


68    MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

THOMAS.  Just  look  at  the  cloak 
and  hood,  sir,  and  see  if  you  can  guess. 
(Bringing  HENRY  in  toward  the  light 
of  the  fire.) 

ARKWRIGHT.  Prudence,  eh  ?  Humph ! 
Father  at  the  front  door,  daughter  at 
the  back  door, — we'll  have  the  invalid 
mother  coming  down  the  chimney  next. 

(Exit  THOMAS,  RC.  HENRY  seats 
himself,  C,  front,  behind  ARKWRIGHT.) 

HENRY,  (demurely).  My  papa  doesn't 
know  I'm  here. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (ill-humoredly,  without 
turning).  He  doesn't? 

HENRY.  No. — I've  another  fairy 
tale  for  you. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Well,  is  it  of  the  sort 
that  Henry  tells,  or  your  variety, — all 
golden  towers  and  elves  with  burning 
eyes  in  mountain  caves? 

HENRY.  No.  All  the  elves  are  little 
angels  now. 

ARKWRIGHT.    Indeed. 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    69 

HENRY.     I'm  going  to  begin  it. 

ARK  WRIGHT.     Well,  I'm  ready.. 

HENRY.  Long,  long  time  ago,  when 
all  the  fences  were  of  gingerbread,  with 
candy  flowers  growing  'round  them, 
— is  that  the  kind  of  story  you  like 
best? 

ARKWRIGHT.     Tis  very  sweet. 

HENRY.  Yes.  Well, — long  time 
ago,  when  all  the  flowers  were  gin- 
gerbread and  sugar,  two  little  angels 
ran  away  from  Heaven.  And  all  day 
long  they  fed  the  birds  with  crumbs, 
and  chased  the  squirrels  'round  the 
trees,  and  laughed,  until  'twas  time  to 
go  to  bed,  and  then  a  big  old  mother 
hen  made  room  for  them  under  her 
wing.  But  when  the  moonlight  came, 
a  naughty  rooster  made  a  dreadful 
noise. — You  see,  he  thought  the  moon- 
light was  the  sun. — And  then  the  little 
angels  laughed  at  him  and  he  got  mad 
and  chased  one  right  away ! 


70    MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (amused).  What  a  bad 
rooster ! 

HENRY.  Yes.  That  little  angel  got 
lost  in  the  dark  until  the  daylight  came, 
and  then  the  other  little  angels  up  in 
Heaven  came  down  to  look  for  him 
and  took  him  home. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (beginning  to  feel  un- 
tasy).  And  what  about  the  angel  that 
was  left  ?  Did  he  go  back  to  Heaven  ? 

HENRY.  No,  he  couldn't ;  he  didn't 
know  the  way  alone.  He  cried  and 
cried  until  he  talked  just  like  a  chicken, 
and  said  "Peep!  Peep!"  and  never 
tried  to  fly.  So  when  the  angels  came 
to  look  for  him,  they  found  him  just 
like  any  other  chicken  ;  and  he  grew 
up  to  be  a  big  bad  rooster. — Perhaps 
they'll  kill  him  and  cook  him  and  eat 
him  up. 

ARKWRIGHT,  (uncomfortable}.  It 
seems  to  me  the  angels  up  in  Heaven 
would  take  him  ;  for  he'd  ask  them  to. 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    71 

HENRY.  Oh  no.  He  isn't  like  an 
angel  any  more  ;  he  doesn't  want  to 
go,  for  he's  a  chicken.  And  chickens 
can't  see  angels,  anyhow.  (A  pause]. 
Can  you  see  angels  ? 

ARKWRIGHT,  (startled).  Oh, — I  never 
tried. 

HENRY.  You  have  to  shut  your 
eyes  and  look  real  hard,  and  then  you'll 
see  them  flying  all  around.  Just  shut 
your  eyes, — I'll  show  you.  (Goes  up 
behind  the  chair  and  puts  his  hands  over 
his  father  s  eyes)  Now  can  you  see 
them? 

ARKWRIGHT.    Why,  hardly. 

HENRY,  (reaching  around  farther) 
Now  can  you  see  them  ?  . 

ARKWRIGHT,  (rising,  and  going  to 
door.RC)  Well,  if  not,  I  certainly 
hear  one,  and  to  good  effect. — Thomas  ! 

THOMAS,  (entering).     Yes,  sir. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Tell  Mr.  Graham  I 
should  like  to  speak  with  him  ;  ask  him 


72    MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

to  come  at  once.  (Aside.}  How  could 
I  think  of  parting  those  two  children  ? 
That  little  lady's  influence  for  my  boy 
makes  amends  for  any  sort  of  father. 
And,  after  all,  old  Graham  is  honest  as 
the  day,  and  competent.  He  is  old 
and  deaf,  but  certainly  my  behavior 
to  the  father  of  such  a  child  has  been 
heartless  to  say  the  least.  I  wish  I 
had  thought  about  the  children.  How- 
ever, I'll  try  now  to  make  amends. — 
(Raising  his  voice  as  GRAHAM  appears, 
RC.)  Oh,  Graham,  come  right  in. 
I  want  to  ask  your  pardon  for  speaking 
as  I  did.  Fatigue  and  worry  made  me 
forget  your  feelings.  And,  Graham,  I 
want  to  ask  as  a  favor  that  you'll  not 
move  from  your  little  home  next  door, 
or  raise  any  objection  to  the  children's 
companionship. 

GRAHAM.  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Ark- 
wright,  with  all  my  heart,  for  these 
kindlier  words.  But  now  I  must  be- 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    73 

gin  my  business  life  all  over  again  ;  we 
cannot  afford  to  keep  the  house. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Nonsense!  I've 
changed  my  mind  !  You  go  right  back 
to  the  office  as  usual  to-morrow  morn- 
ing and  I'll  give  you  a  small  room  all 
to  yourself,  where  nobody  will  bother 
you,  and  I'll  put  a  stove  in  there  so 
that  you  will  not  feel  the  cold,  and — 

GRAHAM.  Oh,  Mr.  Arkwright,  this 
is  too  much ;  I  don't  deserve  this,  sir ! 
I  am  not  blind  to  my  growing  infirmity, 
and  surely  you  must  have  seen  it  too, 
sir. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Graham,  I've  kept 
my  business  eyes  open  too  much. 
Sometimes  we  can  see  better  with  our 
eyes  shut !  Give  me  your  hand  ;  you 
have  my  friendship,  henceforth  un- 
changeable. And  if  you  want  to  know 
why  I  have  taken  better  counsel  in 
this  matter,  ask  your  little  seraph 
there.  I  never  knew  till  now  her  four 


74    MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR. 

small  years  had  grown  so  inseparably 
into  my  life. 

GRAHAM,  (surprised  and  grieved]. 
What!  Prudence  disobey  me  and 
come  here?  Well,  I  must  not  blame 
the  child  until  I  know  her  motives. 
But  to  punish  her  now  would  make 
me  cry  as  hard  as  ever  in  my 
life. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Why,  I  forgot.  Here 
we  are  in  the  dark,  like  a  couple  of 
bats !  Thomas  ! 

THOMAS,  (entering).    Yes,  sir. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Light  the  lamp  again, 
Thomas. — And  now,  my  little  angel, 
where  did  you  find  that  lovely  fairy 
tale  you  entertained  me  with  ? 

HENRY.    Thomas  told  it  to  me. 

ARKWRIGHT.  Oho!  Graham, 
Thomas  is  giving  your  little  girl  a 
course  in  angelic  theology  of  a  new 
order !  You  had  better  inquire  into  it 
this  evening. 


MY  YOUNGSTER'S  LOVE  AFFAIR.    75 

GRAHAM,  (looking  at  HENRY  in  sur- 
prise]. My  little  girl  ?  That's  Henry  ! 

ARKWRIGHT.  What ?  Thomas, 
bring  me  my  glasses  !  So  it  is  !  Henry  ! 
(Lifts  HENRY  into  his  arms  and  shakes 
his  finger  reprovingly  at  THOMAS.) 


CURTAIN. 


II. 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 


CHARACTERS. 

HENRY,  (alias  THOMPSON),  and  ARTHUR,  his 
wayward  brother. 


II. 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 


SCENE — Poorly  furnished  room  in  a  tenement; 
table,  chair,  and  two  candles,  one  of  them  burning. 
Mantel  and  grate,  L.  Door,  R.  Henry,  in  rags, 
at  work  painting  a  china  vase.  Steps  heard  on  the 
stairway.  Enter  Arthur,  dressed  in  the  height  of 
fashion. 

ARTHUR,  (singing,  and  a  little  tipsy). 
Home  again,  home  again,  from  a 
foreign  shore ! — No,  I'm  only  half  seas 
over !  Here,  Thompson,  Mister  Thomp- 
son, what  are  you  trying  to  hide  there  ? 
Have  you  bought  another  loaf  of  bread 
after  getting  one  day  before  yesterday  ? 
That's  extravagance,  man ;  do  you 
think  we  can  afford  an  establishment 
like  the  Vanderbilts',  or  buy  three 

79 


80  THE   GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

loaves  of  bread  in  the  same  week? 
Besides,  I've  had  all  my  dinners  and 
three  breakfasts  out  this  month,  and 
to-morrow  I'll  sleep  until  the  twelve 
o'clock  whistles  blow,  so  we  can  get 
along  with  just  a  dinner.  Come,  let's 
see  the  size  of  it.  (Taking  vase).  Oho! 
A  china  vase — and  a  little  paint.  Now 
Thompson,  this  is  the  second  time  I've 
caught  you  putting  paint  on  these  fine 
bits  of  crockery ;  what  do  you  do  it 
for? 

HENRY,  {patiently).  I  hoped  to  sell 
it ;  for  you  know  we  need  money,  Ar- 
thur. (Lights  second  candle). 

ARTHUR.  Money!  Why,  I  draw 
my  twenty  dollars  regularly  every 
week  from  the  bank.  That  hasn't 
given  out, — though  I  suppose  it  must 
be  getting  low.  How  much  is  there 
left  ?  You  have  the  book. 

HENRY.  I  fear  there  is  very  little 
left  now.  But  let  me  take  the  vase  ; 


THE   GUARDIAN  ANGEL.  8 1 

you  may  drop  it.  There  was  a  lady 
here  to-day  who  said  she  would  buy 
it. 

ARTHUR,  (chaffing).  Aha  !  So  you 
have  ladies  calling  upon  you,  eh,  while 
I'm  away  ?  Oh  you  gay  rogue!  Oh 
you  rascal  !  Perhaps  you're  one  of 
the  boys,  after  all.  And  do  they  con- 
sider you  a  lady  killer,  with  that  frowzy 
head  and  those  blase  clothes  ?  Thomp- 
son, Thompson !  So  you're  only  a 
carpet  knight, — and  rag  carpet  at  that ! 
(Singing  "  Buy  a  broom"  and  dancing 
around  with  the  vase.)  Oh,  my  little 
flower-pot,  little  finger-bowl,  little 
tooth-mug,  (drops  it ;  HENRY  starts  to 
catch  it  and  groans  disheartened  as  it  is 
shattered.  ARTHUR  becomes  sober  at 
once).  Oh,  I'm  sorry,  old  man ;  (re- 
gretfully) I  didn't  mean  to  break  it. 
But  I'll  get  you  another  to-morrow, 
when  I  draw  my  twenty  dollars  for  the 
coming  week.  That  bill  for  cab  hire 


82  THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL. 

is  not  more  than  fifteen,  and  I'll  let 
the  house  charges  at  the  club  run  for 
another  month.  —  Come,  you're  not 
hurt  at  what  I  said  about  your  clothes, 
are  you  ?  It's  only  my  way  of  teasing, 
and  I  know  that  under  this  old  coat 
there  is  a  heart  that  has  proved  a  hun- 
dred times  over  that  it  loves  me.  Why, 
how  could  I  have  kept  the  pace  these 
three  years  past  if  you  had  not  guarded 
my  expenses  and  provided  a  mouthful 
to  eat  and  a  poor  substitute  for  a  home 
when  I  chanced  to  be  without  a  friend's 
hospitality  for  the  night?  Come, 
Thompson,  old  man,  look  up  and  tell 
me  I  have  not  wounded  your  feelings. 
HENRY.  Arthur,  you  know  I  have 
been  a  true  friend  to  you,  and  true 
friendship  does  not  seek  offense.  I 
have  done  my  best  for  you,  for  I  loved 
you, — perhaps  some  day  you  may  know 
why.  No ;  it  is  something  else  that 
makes  me  sad  to-night.  But  tell  me 


THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL.  83 

once  more  about  your  early  life. 
( Warming  his  hands  at  the  grate?) 

ARTHUR.  Oh,  don't  ask  me  to  do 
that.  Something  has  happened  to-day 
to  make  the  subject  very  painful  to  me. 
That's  why  I  drank  more  than  usual  at 
the  club  before  coming  home,  and,  as 
a  consequence,  broke  your  vase.  I've 
told  you  how  when  father  died  my 
brother  tried  to  keep  me  steady  and 
self-respecting ;  how  I  hated  him  and 
accused  him  of  wanting  my  money, 
and  at  last  ran  off  to  seek  pleasure  in 
this  city.  Here  I've  squandered  nearly 
all  the  funds  father  put  in  the  bank  to 
my  account,  and  if  I  had  not  met  you 
three  years  ago  the  fellows  at  the  club 
would  have  found  me  out  before  this. 
As  it  is,  they  still  think  I  am  a  wealthy 
man  of  leisure — confound  it  all! 

HENRY.  And  your  brother — do  you 
still  hate  him  ? 

ARTHU R,  (with  mild  surprise}.    Why 


84  THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL. 

do  you  want  to  know  ?  You  asked  me 
that  same  question  a  long  while  ago, 
too.  (Approaching  him?)  I  have  al- 
ways made  a  confident  of  you,  Thomp- 
,  son,  for  you  never  preach, — unless 
by  example — and,  to  be  candid,  I 
love  you  as  the  one  true  friend  I 
have  in  this  world,  for  you  have 
proved  it.  (Returning?)  As  to  my 
brother,  I  must  confess  that  up  to 
this  very  day  my  hate  for  him  and 
every  memory  of  him  has  had  all 
the  stinging  bitterness  of  a  rebel's. 
(Gravely?]  But  I  want  to  confide  a 
secret  to  you, — something  I  learned  this 
afternoon.  First,  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened to  make  you  sad,  and  then  I'll 
tell  you  what  is  weighing  upon  my  mind. 

HENRY,  (wearily).  No,  Arthur,  you 
begin  ;  I  feel  tired  to-night — I'll  make 
a  better  listener. 

ARTHUR.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Come 
over  here  and  sit  by  the  table,  (rising) 


THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL.  85 

and  I'll  warm  my  hands  while  you  talk. 
(\\KWKyfeeblyseatshimselfin  the  chair 
at  the  table?) 

HENRY.  Well,  shall  I  tell  you  my 
life  story  ? 

ARTHUR.  Yes,  do,  old  fellow.  You 
know  I've  pressed  you  for  it  often 
enough;  and  I'm  tired  of  hearing  you  say 
you're  my  guardian  angel  in  disguise. 

HENRY,  (dubiously).  Would  you  feel 
the  same  toward  me  after  I  had  told 
you  all  ? 

ARTHUR,  (taking  his  hand).  Why, 
of  course  I  should. 

HENRY,  (earnestly).  You  love  me, 
Arthur? 

ARTHUR,  (enthusiastically).  Could  I 
help  loving  a  comrade  that  has  borne 
with  all  my  faults,  saved  me  a  dozen 
times  from  utterly  ruining  myself, 
helped  me  to  economize  in  private  that 
I  might  still  cut  a  figure  in  the  world — 
and  done  all  this  without  any  other 


86  THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL. 

motive  than  blind  devotion  ?  Thomp- 
son, dear  old  fellow,  do  you  think  I 
could  be  ungrateful  ? 

HENRY,  (wistfully).  But-- you  hate 
your  brother  ? 

ARTHUR,  (conscience-stricken,  return- 
ing to  fireplace).  Go  on;  tell  me  your 
story  ;  I'll  answer  no  more  questions 
till  you  do.  Begin. 

HENRY,  (sadly).  No  ;  (straightening 
up),  but  you  shall  hear  a  dream  I  had 
last  night ;  I  thought  I  stood  at 
Heaven's  gate,  watching  the  souls  sent 
out  into  the  world,  like  soldiers  to  a 
battle-field  ;  and  every  soul  as  it  passed 
into  the  night  received  an  angel  for  a 
guardian  and  helper  in  the  battle.  The 
angel  carried  a  bright  sunbeam  for  a 
sword  and  marched  ahead  to  clear  a 
path  and  meet  the  deadlier  blows.  But 
one  warrior,  thoughtless,  as  it  seemed, 
of  the  long  fight  to  come,  refused  to 
follow  where  his  angel  led  the  way,  and 


THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL.  8/ 

turned  aside  to  struggle  in  the  dark. 
And  when  I  looked  at  him  I  thought 
of  one  I  loved — just  such  a  soul — and 
joy  flamed  up  within  me  when  I  saw 
his  angel  turn,  accept  his  rash  decision 
and  follow  in  his  footsteps,  righting  for 
him.  And  now  the  blows  hail  heavier 
upon  him,  and,  in  the  dark,  enemies 
unseen  before  spring  up.  His  angel 
battles  with  them,  meeting  the  strokes 
the  other  could  not  parry,  and  every 
moment  the  conflict  becomes  fiercer. 
The  soul  I  loved  was  moving  on  into 
a  denser  mass  of  enemies ;  his  angel 
warrior,  following  at  his  back,  found  it 
ever  harder  to  guard  and  fight  for  him, 
and  when  I  saw  his  sword-strokes 
cramped  and  hindered  I  turned  away 
and  fell  upon  my  face  to  pray  that  God 
would  spare  him.  (Convulsively  buries 
his  face  in  his  hands.} 

ARTHUR,  (astonished).  Why,  Thomp- 
son, my  poor  fellow,  I  never  heard  you 


88  THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL. 

talk  this  way  before.  Why  should  a 
dream  cause  you  to  feel  so  deeply  ? 
And  you  have  grown  pale  and  haggard 
during  the  week.  Have  those  friends 
that  used  to  invite  you  out  to  a  square 
meal  so  often,  as  you  told  me,  grown 
weary  of  your  company?  Or,  more 
likely,  you've  been  keeping  late  hours, 
old  man,  and  that's  what  makes  you  so 
tired  too.  But  now  brace  up,  for  I 
want  you  to  approve  of  something  I 
did  this  afternoon.  (Returning  to  grate?) 
I  wrote  and  mailed  three  letters — one 
to  Julia  Mason,  that  rich  banker's 
daughter,  and  the  other  two  to  the 
clubs.  (With  cold  determination^]  In 
those  letters  I  stated  plainly  I  had  been 
acting  a  part,  that  I  was  poor  and 
growing  every  day  poorer ;  that  I 
lodged  with  a  good-hearted  tramp  even 
needier  than  I,  and  that  when  we  dined 
at  home — we  never  brushed  the  crumbs 
from  the  table.  And  now,  I  suppose 


'     THE   GUARDIAN  ANGEL.  89 

you  wonder  at  my  making  a  clean 
breast  of  everything,  but  I  learned  to- 
day that  I've  been  a  brute,  and  that 
my  brother,  instead  of  having  squan- 
dered his  money  and  gone  to  the  bad, 
has  reduced  himself  to  penury  in  his 
efforts  to  find  me  and  induce  me  to 
reform.  To-day  he  is  almost  a  beg- 
gar in  this  very  town.  (HENRY  feebly 
tries  to  speak  ;  ARTHUR  does  not  see  him.} 
I'm  going  to  start  right  out  to-morrow 
and  find  him,  and  tell  him  that  I'll  do 
anything  for  a  brother  that  can  love 
like  that !  faww  falls  forward  en  the 
table.  One  of  the  candles,  by  a  pre- 
arrangement,  burns  out.}  Don't  go  to 
sleep  yet,  old  man  ;  I  haven't  told  you 
how  I  heard  about  him.  As  I  passed 
a  church  to-day,  old  Nellie  Cqlgan, 
that  benevolent  crank  father  thought 
so  much  of,  was  just  coming  out.  She 
knew  me  at  once,  in  spite  of  the 
changes  of  ten  years,  and  asked  to 


9O  THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL. 

speak  with  me.  Then  I  learned  that 
in  one  of  her  slumming  tours  she  had 
found  Henry  in  abject  poverty.  He 
confided  in  her,  it  seems,  but  under  a 
promise  of  secrecy  as  to  his  where- 
abouts. He  is  barely  able  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together  by  working 
early  and  late,  because,  for  some  reason, 
he  has  to  put  by  a  certain  amount  of 
money  every  week.  With  more  del- 
icacy than  I  gave  her  credit  for,  she 
admired  his  work,  and  told  him  that  to- 
morrow she  would  call  and  buy  some- 
thing he  was  finishing,  some  decorative 
trifle — (with  a  vague  inkling  of  the 
truth,}  painting,  I  think, — on  china  ! 
(looking  at  broken  vase,  then  hastily  ap- 
proaching tabled)  Are  you  listening, 
old  fellow — do  you  hear  what  I  say  ? 
Wake  up  !  Speak  to  me  ! !  HENRY  ! 
(Falls  sobbing  at  his  side.) 

CURTAIN. 


III. 

THE  MILD  MONOMANIAC. 


A    SCENE    OF   DOMESTIC    VICISSITUDE 
IN   THE    LIFE    OF 

MR.   WILKINS, 

AN    AMIABLE    LITTLE   FAT   MAN. 


III. 

THE  MILD  MONOMANIAC. 


SCENE — A  garret  in  disorder.  Large  sofa  front, 
door,  R,  open  dormer  window  with  seat,  c.  A 
down  comforter  and  a  lot  of  old  books  in  corner,  L. 
A  china  jar  near  them.  As  the  curtain  rises  a  wo- 
man's dress  is  seen  to  swish  out  of  the  door,  which 
closes  with  a  bang.  Mr.  Wilkins,  in  profuse  per- 
spiration is  seated  on  the  sofa  and  holding  a  bundle  of 
clothes  which  he  has  just  taken  from  a  trunk. 

MR.  WILKINS,  (alternately  talking 
and  fanning  violently).  Amanda,  if 
you're  not  very  careful,  I'll  lose  com- 
mand of  my  temper !  I  should  have 
remained  a  bachelor  all  my  life  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Henry,  that  dear  saintly 
brother  of  mine.  And  yet  you  find 
fault  with  me  for  talking  about  his 

93 


94          THE   MILD   MONOMANIAC. 

missionary  labors  in  China,  and  for 
trying  to  conform  our  conduct  to  his 
high  ideals.  Do  you  realize  that  I 
should  not  have  embraced  the  married 
state  except  to  imitate  his  self-sacri- 
fice ?  And  then  where  would  you  have 
been, — and  our  three  children,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  baby?  No,  Amanda; 
I  am  mild,  for  Henry  was  mildness  it- 
self, but  now  I  must  put  my  foot  down, 
just  as  I  am  sure  Henry,  if  he  were  in 
my  shoes, — yes,  would  put  his  foot 
down.  I  must — and  I  will  go  with  you 
and  the  children  to  the  circus  !  There  ! 
— (Propitiatorily^  You  couldn't  take 
care  of  those  four  young  ones, 
Amanda,  all  by  yourself ;  and  for 
Tommy,  a  boy  nine  years  old,  to  look 
after  his  two  sisters  while  you  carry  the 
baby,  why, — Henry  would  say  it  was 
downright  imprudence.  Suppose  they 
should  go  too  near  the  monkeys,  or  the 
giraffe,  or  the  elephant !  Now,  as  for 


THE   MILD   MONOMANIAC.          95 

my  talking  so  much  that  you  couldn't 
hear  the  clown, — I  should  think  you 
would  blush  to  acknowledge  any  liking 
for  such  talk  as  his.  Anyway,  he  is  a 
perfect  stranger,  and  1  am  your  hus- 
band.— Oh  no ;  if  I  had  suspected  that 
under  pretext  of  getting  these  clothes 
you  brought  me  all  the  way  up 
here  to  the  garret  just  to  talk  me 
into  staying  at  home, — I  should  have 
remained  down  in  the  kitchen  just  as 
long  as  it  suited  me.  Do  you  realize 
that  you  have  practiced  a  deception 
upon  me  ?  What  would  your  saintly 
brother-in-law  say  to  such  an  equivo- 
cation ? — But  I  •shall  control  my  in- 
dignation,  Amanda.  Henry  was  mild, 
even  under  great  annoyance,  and 
I  believe  you  are  sorry, — though  I 
t  think  you  ought  to  say  so  and  not  stay 
there  silent  so  long.  (Soothingly^  I 
shall  not  say  another  word  about  it  if 
you  promise  to  be  more  considerate  in 


96          THE   MILD   MONOMANIAC. 

future.  Try  to  conform  your  ideas  of 
right  and  wrong  to  Henry's  standard  in 
such  matters.  I  did  not  appreciate  him 
properly  until  he  left  us  for  his  mission- 
ary work  in  China,  but  since  then  I  have 
tried  to  make  amends.  I  gave  up  the 
club,  I  gave  up  smoking.  I  rose  every 
morning  at  six  and  I  went  to  house- 
keeping and  got  married.  Oh  Henry, 
my  dear  brother,  I  am  trying  now  to 
imitate  your  self-sacrifice,  but  I  hope 
you  will  soon  come  home  to  us  from 
those  barbarous  lands, — that  you  will 
not  be  a  martyr  ! — No,  Amanda,  I  shall 
not  rebuke  you  any  farther,  although 
you  caused  me  to  lose  my  breath  climb- 
ing up  those  three  flights  of  stairs  on 
a  hot  day  in  August. — I  say  I  shall  not 
refer  to  the  matter  again. — Amanda, 
are  you  listening  ?  (Turns  L,  then  R  ; 
looks  back  of  sofa.)  What!  Did  you 
go  out  that  time  when  you  slammed 
the  door.  (Angry.)  And  have  I  been 


THE   MILD    MONOMANIAC.          97 

talking  to  deaf  ears,  or  rather,  to 
no  ears  at  all?  Amanda,  if  you're 
standing  out  there  on  the  stairs  come 
in.  (Approaches  door.)  Do  you  hear 
me?  (Tries  the  knob.)  Locked!  The 
undutiful  saucebox  has  locked  her  hus- 
band in  the  garret !  (Peremptorily,  at 
door)  Amanda ! — (At  window,  casu- 
ally) Amanda  ! — Nothing  in  sight  but 
Mrs.  Johnson's  calf.  I  wish  they'd 
keep  that  calf  down  at  their  own  farm 
and  not  let  it  stray  up  here  around  our 
back  door.  (Indifferently)  Amanda! 
(Leaves  window.)  Well,  I  must  get  out 
of  here  some  way.  I  said  I  was  going 
to  that  circus,  and  when  I  say  a  thing — 
although  I'm  as  mild  as  a  lamb  under  or- 
dinary circumstances, — just  like  Henry, 
my  dear,  amiable  brother  !  Oh,  Henry, 
if  you  could  only  walk  in  here  now  and 
see  how  agitated  I  am, — and  all  be- 
cause I  took  your  advice  to  settle  down. 
—I  know  what  I'll  do  ;— I'll  pick  the 
7 


98          THE   MILD   MONOMANIAC. 

lock  with  my  pen-knife.  (Approaches 
door)  Stop !  Is  it  right  to  pick  a 
lock?  Did  Henry  ever  pick  a  lock? 
But  then  he  was  never  shut  up  in  a 
garret, — because  he  was  never  married. 
(Reassured,  resumes  the  picking.  Then, 
despairingly,  after  looking  through  key- 
hole?) She's  left  the  key  in  the  key- 
hole ! — (Loftily,  retiring^)  Henry  would 
never  pick  a  lock  ;  it  would  be  beneath 
him  ;  his  conscience  was  too  sensitive. 
— If  it  wasn't  so  far  to  the  ground  I'd 
jump  out  the  window.  (Looks  out.) 
There's  little  Helen  Johnson.  Her 
folks  might  come  and  let  me  out.  How 
did  she  come  to  stray  so  far  from  home  ? 
I  suppose  her  people  have  gone  to  the 
circus,  or  her  mother's  cooking  dinner. 
I  wish  she  would  wander  over  this  way. 
(Calling.)  Helen!  Helen!  Come,  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  !  Helen  !  That's 
a  nice  little  girl !  Now,  don't  be  afraid 
of  the  calf.  The  calf  won't  hurt  you. 


THE   MILD    MONOMANIAC.          99 

Oh,  if  I  had  something  to  fire  at  that 
monster !  (Jumps  down  and  hunts 
about  the  room).  Here ;  Plutarch's 
Lives, — I'd  give  all  he  ever  had  for 
that  calf's  !  (Returns  to  window  with 
armful  of  books  and  fires  them  out,  first 
reading  the  titles)  Alcibiades  !  Numa 
Pompilius !  Caius  Marius !  (Persua- 
sively^) Helen  !  Hel —  Go  away,  you 
exasperating  brute !  Shoo !  Come 
over  nearer,  Helen  ;  I  have  some  candy 
for  you. — (Aside,)  No,  that's  a  lie;  I 
haven't  a  bit  of  candy.  Well,  I'll 
correct  that  statement. — I  haven't — 
that's  right,  come  right  along.  (With 
embarrassment.)  I  was  just  going  to 
tell  you  that  I  haven't  any  candy,  but 
you  go  home  and  tell  mamma  to  come 
and  unlock  my  garret  door,  because 
I'm  locked  in  and  everybody's  gone  to 
the  circus.  Do  you  understand  ? — 
gone  to  the  circus,  where  the  monkeys 
are,  and  the  elephant  and  the  camels 


100        THE   MILD   MONOMANIAC. 

and  the  horseback  riders.  (Dances  up 
and  down  by  way  of  illustration^)  Now 
won't  you  go  and  tell  her,  like  a  good 
little  girl  ?  Run  along  and  tell  mamma 
— wait  a  minute,  I'll  give  you  some- 
thing for  being  a  good  little  girl. 
(Jumps  down,  finds  a  rag  doll  and  throws 
it  out  of  the  windoiv.}  There's  Tom- 
my's old  doll,  Sophronia,  and  you  can 
have  her  to  keep.  Now  go  and  tell 
mamma.  Here  !  Don't  go  that  way  ! 
Go  to  mamma, — this  way  !  This  way  ! 
Oh,  you  tantalizing  little  imp  !  Stroll- 
ing along  in  the  other  direction  as  if  I 
had  been  merely  playing  Punch  and 
Judy  !  Yes,  now  look  around  at  me  to 
make  sure  the  show  is  all  over  !  Never 
mind,  I'll  tell  your  mamma  on  you, 
and  you'll  get  a  good  spanking,  just 
like  you  got  yesterday  after  dinner ! 
We  heard  you  !  ( Throwing  himself 
upon  sofa  and  fanning  violently?)  If  I 
had  a  three  year  old  child  as  stupid  as 


THE   MILD   MONOMANIAC.        IOI 

that  one  I'd  give  it  an  education  abroad. 
— But  there,  I  have  sacrificed  my  equa- 
nimity, lost  my  temper  over  a  calf,  told 
a  lie,  and  abused  my  wife.  Oh  Henry, 
I  am  not  mild  yet ; — I  am  nowhere 
near  your  gentleness !  What  would 
you  do  now  if  you  had  forgotten  your- 
self as  I  have?  I  know, — you'd  follow 
your  old  rule  and  punish  yourself  in 
someway;  but  what  can  I  do?  I 
am  already  suffering  imprisonment 
and  perspiration.  I  suppose,  if  I  had 
the  courage, — I  could  intensify  the 
heat  a  little.  (Looks  hesitatingly  at  a 
pile  of  down  comforters,  etc?)  Henry,  I 
WILL  !  (Wraps  himself  in  comforter 
and  resumes  his  seat?)  No  one  shall  say 
I  lacked  the  courage  of  our  convictions 
and  I'll  imitate  you,  Henry,  in  every- 
thing,— as  far  as  Amanda  is  willing. 
Oh,  Henry,  if  you  could  only  walk  in 
here  now  and  see  me  following  your 
example,  you  would  know  then  how 


IO2        THE   MILD    MONOMANIAC. 

sincerely  your  gentle  goodness  is  es- 
teemed !  But  you  are  far  away  in 
China,  perhaps  martyred,  for  no  letter 
has  come  in  six  months ;  and  I  am  home 
here  in  the  garret, — hush  !  what  step  is 
that  ?  I  hear  someone  walking  about 
down-stairs.  (Goes  to  window?)  Of 
course  !  Amanda  has  gone  off  and  left 
the  back  door  open. — It's  a  man's  step  ! 
It's  a  burglar  !  He's  going  through  all 
the  rooms,  one  after  the  other  !  (Foot- 
steps heard  indistinctly?)  Burglars  are 
dangerous,  and  always  kill  when  they 
are  detected  !  If  I  should  call  out  he 
would  come  up  here  and  kill  me, — so  I 
won't.  He's  on  the  floor  below !  Oh, 
— if  he  should  find  the  garret  stairs  and 
come  up  !  I'll  arm  myself  and  be  pre- 
pared for  the  worst.  If  he  comes  in 
here  I  must  defend  myself.  I'll  hit 
him  with  this  poker  !  It  will  do  very 
well,  provided  he  has  no  firearms.  Let 
me  get  something  to  throw  at  him  first ; 


THE    MILD    MONOMANIAC.        IO3 

— here,  this  jug  is  heavy.  He  might 
die  from  a  blow  with  such  a  big  piece 
of  china, — China, — where  Henry  is  ! 
Good-by,  Henry  ! — (Steps  become  dis- 
tinct and  grow  louder.)  He's  found  the 
garret  stairs!— HE'S  COMING  UP! 
(Hysterically  standing  on  the  sofa,  with 
the  comforter  still  about  him,  and  brand- 
ishing the  poker  and  the  china  jar ,  ) 
COME  ON,  VILLAIN,  I'M  READY 
F O  R  YO  U  !  (Key  turns  and  door  opens. 
Enter  a  long-faced  dominie)  H  ENRY  ! 

CURTAIN. 


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